Harlan
Bio Harlan Ducourt is a guy who grew up poor and then became a duke of Shangrila. He also fucked some elves and married one, Valora. Description Brutality is the first word that should come to mind when one first lay eyes on this man. Like a blunt weapon, he's been hewn by years of hard living and bad choices, resulting in a natural ferocity tempered by the vigors of a seafaring rogue. Yet there's also a certain charisma about him, primal and intangible, exuding the natural confidence of an alpha male without pretense or posture despite his noble title. He's got the look of a boxer, neither fair nor handsome, though his coarse and swarthy features are appealing in their own right. His ruggedly weathered face is marked by a scar near his left eye. It cuts with crooked severity from his temple to the depths of his cheek. The acquired trauma has resulted in dulling the iris of his left eye to a pale cloudy shade, rendered blind or nearly so. His right eye, an crisp shade of glacial blue, is left undamaged. As such, the heterochromia enhances the air of intimidation about him. Chestnut brown hair is swept back in a left-parted style, silvered with maturity at both temples. His ears are small and marred, his broad nose appears to have been broken at one point and a medium-length beard, neatly trimmed and streaked with grey, covers his hard jawline. His burly form reflects his character. He's a big guy, stout as a silverback gorilla. He's somewhere around six feet, though his powerful presence makes his height seem almost an inconsequential thing. He's wearing an ensemble well-fitted to his large frame, a touch of refinement that serves him well enough though no amount of fashionable tact will ever fully disguise his vulgar plebian countenance. A cotton button-down shirt - dusty white and sweat-stained - clings to the muscular bulk of his torso. Neglecting a tie, the shirt's collar has been left open at his throat, two buttons undone to reveal a small wedge of hairy chestflesh and the glint of a gold chain resting across it. The edge of a brand can be seen under the collar's left fold, a rune-line symbol that's been seared into the flesh of his neck. he sleeves are the shirt are rolled up to his elbows, baring the trunks of his tattoo-covered forearms. Accessories are minimal but notable: an expensive-looking platinum watch wraps around his thick left wrist while his fingers are adorned with an assortment of gold and silver rings, including the ruby signet of Sol. His hands are big, like blocks when made into fists, roughened by years of hard work and tending lines. Past the bulge of a musclegut, the shirt is tucked into the waistband of charcoal-colored wool pants. Keeping the pants in check are suspenders, stretching over broad shoulders and merging into a Y-junction across his brawny back. Common boots serve as footwear, dark leather worn down to a dusty shade. As he walks, he does so with a noticeable limp, the impairment seeming to originate in his right leg, giving him a loping sort of stride that resembles a prowling wolf. Despite this, his confident movements betray hints of dexterity unusual for somebody of his bulk and size.